“What?” Ari asks, finally noticing the looks Jude and I are giving her.
“I would study Greek mythology over plankton any day of the week,” says Jude, gesturing at an illustration in the textbook.
Ari huffs in that signature you-guys-don’t-get-it way. Which, admittedly, we don’t. The three of us have been arguing about which is worse—attending the prestigious St. Agnes Prep or navigating our Fortuna Beach High—ever since we met nearly four years ago. It’s a typical grass-is-greener situation. Jude and I are forever jealous of the seemingly obscure topics and lesson plans that Ari complains about. Things like “How the Transcontinental Spice Trade Changed History,” or “The Influence of Paganism on Modern Religious Traditions.” Whereas Ari yearns for the teen-movie normalcy that comes with low-quality cafeteria lunches and not having to wear a uniform every day.
Which, I mean, fair enough.
One thing Ari can’t argue, though, is that St. Agnes has a music program that is far superior to anything she’d find in the public schools. If it wasn’t for their dedicated classes on music theory and composition, I suspect Ari would have begged her parents to let her transfer.
Jude and I go back to our papers while Ari turns her attention to two women who are sharing a dessert at the next table. Ari has her notebook in front of her and is wearing her trying-to-come-up-with-a-rhyme-to-make-this-song-lyric-work face. I imagine a ballad about coconut pudding and early love. Pretty much all of Ari’s songs are about early love. That, or they’re about the tumultuous angst of love-gone-wrong. Never anything in between. Though I guess that could be said for almost every song.
I read the assignment again, thinking that maybe it will inspire an idea. “Two hundred fifty words on what sort of underwater adaptation would be useful in our aboveground environment.” It’s not a hard assignment. I should have been done an hour ago. But after the last few nights spent finishing the ecotourism project, my brain feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder.
“That’s it! Basking shark!” says Jude, thumping a finger down on his book. The image shows a positively horrific shark, its enormous mouth gaping open, revealing not huge, sharp teeth, but what appears to be its skeleton or rib cage or something extending back into its body. It reminds me of the scene when Pinocchio gets swallowed by the whale. “It swims through the water, scooping up whatever bits of food come its way.”
“And that would be useful to you, how?” I ask.
“Efficiency. Whatever food I passed by could just get swept down my throat. I’d never have to chew or stop to eat.” He pauses, a thoughtful look coming into his eye. “Actually, that would make a great dungeon monster.”
“That would make a disgusting monster,” I say.
He shrugs and jots down a note in the sketchbook that is always at his elbow. “You’re the one who’s obsessed with time management.”
He does have a point. I grunt and flip through my textbook for the sixth time while Jude takes our shared laptop and pulls it toward himself. Rather than opening a new document, he merely deletes my name at the top and replaces it with his before he starts to type.
“Here we go, little worker bees,” says Carlos, arriving with a basket of tortilla chips, guacamole, and two kinds of salsa. A sweet guava-based salsa for me and Jude, and an extra-fiery pseudo-masochistic why-would-anyone-do-this-to-themselves? spicy one for Ari. “Your school isn’t out yet?”
“Tomorrow’s our last day,” says Jude. “Ari’s got out last week.”
“Does that mean I’ll be seeing more of you, or less?”
“More,” Ari answers, beaming at him. “We’re pretty much going to live here this summer, if that’s okay with you.” Ari has had a schoolgirl crush on Carlos since we started coming here. Which might seem a little weird, given that he’s got to be close to forty, except he looks an awful lot like a young Antonio Banderas. That, plus the Puerto Rican accent, plus the man can cook. Who can blame a girl for being a little smitten?
“You three are always welcome,” he says. “But try not to take too much advantage of my free-refill policy, yeah?”
We thank him for the chips as he saunters off to tend to another table.
Jude sits back and dusts off his hands. “Done.”
I look up from a photo of an anglerfish. “What? Already?”
“It’s only two hundred and fifty words. And this assignment isn’t going to count for anything. Trust me, Pru, this is just the tyrannical overlord’s way of testing our loyalty. Don’t overthink it.”
I scowl. He and I both know it’s impossible for me not to overthink.
“That’s a good one,” says Ari, gesturing with her chip toward the book. A speck of salsa lands on the corner of the page. “Oops, sorry.”
I wipe off the splotch with my napkin. “I do not want to be an anglerfish.”
“The assignment isn’t to say what you would be,” says Jude, “just what sort of adaptation could be useful.”
“You’d have a built-in flashlight,” adds Ari. “That would come in handy.”
I hum thoughtfully. It’s not terrible. I could work in something about being a shining light in dark times, which may be a bit poetic for a science paper, but still. “Okay, fine,” I say, pulling the laptop back in front of me. I save Jude’s document before starting my own.
I’ve just finished my first paragraph when there’s a commotion at the front of the restaurant. I glance over to see a woman wheeling in a handcart stacked with speakers, electronic equipment, a small television, a stack of thick three-ring binders, and bundles of cords.
“You made it!” says Carlos from behind the bar, loud enough that suddenly everyone is looking at the woman. She pauses, blinking into the dim light, letting her eyes adjust from the bright afternoon sun. Carlos rushes over to her and takes the cart. “I’ll take that. I thought we’d set up right over here.”
“Oh, thank you,” she says, pushing back a long fringe of hair that’s been dyed candy-apple red. Other than the bangs that nearly cover her eyes, her hair is tied into a hasty topknot, showing her natural blond growing out at the roots. She’s wearing clothes that demand attention: worn and faded cowboy boots; dark jeans that are as much shredded holes as they are denim; a burgundy velvet tank top; enough jewelry to sink a small boat. It’s a far cry from the flip-flops and surf shorts that usually populate Main Street this time of year.
She’s also beautiful. Stunning, actually. But it’s kind of hard to tell given the coating of black eyeliner and smudged purple lipstick. If she’s local, then we would definitely have noticed her around, but I’m sure I’ve never seen her before.
“How’s this?” says Carlos, ignoring the fact that most of his customers are staring at the two of them.
“Perfect. Lovely,” says the woman with a bit of a southern accent. Carlos often hosts live music on the weekends, and they’re standing on the little platform where the bands perform. She takes a second to inspect the area before pointing at the wall. “Is that the only outlet?”
“There’s another behind here.” Carlos pulls a busing station away from the corner.
“Excellent.” The woman spends some time turning in a circle, inspecting the TVs that hang throughout the restaurant, almost always showing sports. “Yeah, great. This will work. Nice place you’ve got.”
“Thanks. You want help setting up, or…?”
“Naw, I’ve got it. Not my first time at the rodeo.” She shoos him away.
“All right, fine.” Carlos takes a step back. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Oh. Uh…” She thinks about it for a few seconds. “Shirley Temple?”
Carlos laughs. “Sure thing.”
He returns to the bar, and the woman starts moving tables around and setting up the equipment she brought. After a few minutes, she grabs the stack of binders and approaches the nearest table. Our table.
“Well, don’t you all just look like some upstanding Fortuna Beach youth?” she says, taking in our textbooks and computers.
“What’s going on?” says Ari, nodding toward all the stuff she brought.
“Weekly karaoke night!” says the woman. “Well, this is actually the first, but we’re hoping it’ll become a weekly thing.”
Karaoke? I’m immediately overcome with visions of crooning old people and squawking middle-aged ladies and a whole lot of drunks who can’t carry a tune and … oh no. So much for our quiet study session. At least the school year is pretty much over.
“I’m Trish Roxby and I’ll be your host,” she continues. Noticing our less-than-enthused expressions, she juts her thumb toward the bar. “Y’all didn’t notice the signs? Carlos told me he’s been advertising for a couple weeks now.”
I glance toward the bar. It takes a minute, but then I notice. On the chalkboard by the door, above the listing of daily specials, in messy handwriting, someone has scrawled the words: JOIN US FOR WEEKLY KARAOKE, EVERY TUESDAY AT 6:00, STARTING IN JUNE.
“So, think you’ll be joining in tonight?” asks Trish.
“No,” Jude and I say in unison.
Ari just bites her lower lip, eyeing the binder.
Trish laughs. “It’s not as scary as it sounds. I promise, it can be a whole lotta fun. Besides, girls like to be serenaded, you know.”
Realizing she’s speaking to him, Jude immediately starts to squirm. “Uh. No. This is my twin sister.” He tilts his head toward me, then gestures between himself and Ari. “And we’re not…” He trails off.
“Really? Twin sister?” says Trish, ignoring whatever he and Ari aren’t. She looks between me and Jude for a moment, before slowly nodding. “Yeah, okay. I can see it now.”
She’s lying. No one ever believes that Jude and I are related, much less twins. We look nothing alike. He’s six foot one and skinny like our dad. I’m five five and curvy like Mom. (Our grandma loves to joke that I took all of Jude’s “baby fat” when we were in the womb and kept it for myself. I never found that joke particularly funny when we were kids, and it has not improved with age. Insert eye-roll emoji here.)